


Little Fishes

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dining, F/M, Gen, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly and Sherlock both have some worries about the objects of their affections. John spends a late night wondering just what is going on with his friend. Mycroft suspects the worst.





	1. Little Fishes- Chapter One

_“I thought you might have found yourself a…goldfish.” ~Sherlock_

_"I'm not lonely, Sherlock." ~Mycroft_

 

          At first, Molly had been excited, pleased. It felt like she was being courted, showered with attention. But after a while, it was embarrassing, and then it was a bit bizarre.

          She started giving things away: fairy cakes, boxes of sweets, bubble bath, a vase of flowers (she had been receiving them weekly, and her desk was only so big).

          Mycroft was sending her too many gifts.

          When she received two flower arrangements, a pair of concert tickets (the envelope marked in his heavy scrawl **_For you and your friend Meena_** ) and a lovely (but thankfully not expensive looking) bracelet in less than a week, Molly knew she had to say something.

          “You’re crazy,” her work-mate Val said, as she took in the vases lining the window of Molly’s little office, “Take what you can get while you can…men stop trying soon enough.”

          Molly disagreed, but was too polite to say so. All she said was, “I don’t want him to think he has to go overboard.”

          “He’s done that alright,” Val agreed, “Is he ugly?”

          “No! He’s lovely,” Molly smiled to herself and Val felt a bit jealous.

          “Terrible temper? Bad breath? Does he have the personality of a wet blanket?”

          “Not at all,” Molly said a shade loftily, although truth be told, Mycroft had a rather terrifyingly cold temper, which she had thankfully only ever seen directed at others (namely Sherlock). And while his quiet, restrained personality probably wouldn’t win him any awards in a competition, Molly found him to be an excellent match for her own lighthearted but quiet ways.

          “Well something’s up.” Val stood, snatching another sweet from the open box on Molly’s desk, “Men don’t send so many gifts unless they’ve hit you, cheated on you or figure they’d better sweeten the pot so they don’t lose you.” She bit into the chocolate, groaned dramatically and waved from the door, “Ta!”

          Alone, Molly propped her chin in her hand and stared at the beautiful flowers Mycroft had sent her. She didn’t have to worry about abuse, or cheating (she was pretty sure the stress of maintaining a relationship with one person was enough for him)…which left the last option. It made about as much sense as any of them. There were thirteen minutes left on her break; pulling out her mobile, she tapped out a text to Sherlock.

          _HAS MYCROFT HAD MANY GIRLFRIENDS BEFORE ME?_

          It took a while before she got a response. **WE ARE NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS!**

_PLEEEEEASE???_

**WHY?**

_JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION, HOLMES!_

**WHATEVS.YES, I’M SURE HE HAS, NONE I HAVE KNOWN OF. NOT SINCE HE WAS AT UNIVERSITY.**

_NOT SINCE UNI?!_

_WAS SHE SPECIAL? DID HE LOVE HER?_

_WHAT HAPPENED?_

_SHERLOCK!_

**THIS IS APPALING. KILL ME IF I EVER ACT THIS WAY.**

_SHERLOCK…!_

Before she could tear her hair out, Sherlock called; as per his usual style, he didn’t greet her, but immediately started talking. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I can make my gue—deductions. He went away all fat and cocky, but when he came back for the Christmas holidays, he had changed.”

          “How?”

          “He wouldn’t eat sweets any more—and about time too—really, he didn’t eat much at all after that, and he just studied all the time. By the time his second year began he had shed all his weight and hadn’t made any friends and—“ Sherlock stopped abruptly, as if he was leery of going on, or had just recalled something.

          “What?” Molly asked, biting her lip. Poor Mycroft, what could have happened?

          “I’d forgotten about that,” Sherlock admitted slowly, “…I was about twelve, and there was this girl staying in the village for the summer. She kept following me around everywhere, really persistent and annoying.”

          Molly rolled her eyes and hung on to her temper. “Does this story have a point…?”

          “Mycroft saw me talking to her one day and afterward he lectured me, told me not to give in to a pretty face. They just wanted to use you, he said, and make fun of you. He said with people as smart as we were, we couldn’t have friends.”

          Aghast, Molly sat with tears in her eyes. It explained a lot about the Holmes brothers.

          “Are you there?” Sherlock huffed when she let the silence stretch on for too long.

          “Sorry, yes,” Molly responded, trying to sound like she wasn’t on the verge of tears. No use, of course he caught the sound in her voice, although at first Sherlock didn’t register it properly. “Are you getting a cold? I need you in top form, Molly, I’m coming in later to work on some experiments and I need your assistance.”

          “I’m _not_ sick. Thank you for your concern for my health by the way.”

          “You’re using sarcasm again, aren’t you?”

          “Bingo.”

          He sighed in a very martyred fashion. “What’s wrong then?”

          Biting her lip, Molly struggled to find a way to answer him that wouldn’t cause him to hang up on her. “I’m just…sympathetic.”

          “To what?”

          “You, you tit! You and Mycroft…it’s sad that you both grew up feeling that way about people. I hope you know _now_ that friendship and love don’t mean weakness.”

          “First you want to talk about Mycroft and relationships, now you’re going to lecture me about love?” The horror in his voice made her smile a bit. Dear Sherlock.

          “Look, you lunatic, you’re my friend and the world hasn’t ended, has it?” Without waiting for him to answer, Molly went on, “And believe it or not, Sherlock, but if you ever hope to have a relationship with John—“ she ignored his shocked “Molly!” and spoke right over him, “—then you need to learn that sometimes people want to talk about feelings. You’ll need to be able to talk to him about them—his and yours. He’s a bloke, so he won’t want to pull apart every facet of your relationship the way a woman would, but still.”

          Sherlock was silent for so long that she thought she might have lost him, and she pulled her phone away from her ear to check that there was still a connection. “Sherl—“

          “I like that.”

          Molly stumbled, lost. “Wait, what?”

          “I like it that you talk as if it will happen.” Sherlock’s voice dropped, almost sounding shy. “That he’d be my—“

          “Lover?” Molly hazarded, smiling. It was pretty adorable, when Sherlock talked about John. She had to resist the urge to fangirl.

          “Urrhn,” Sherlock sort of grunted in reply. “I suppose that word is less ridiculous than ‘boyfriend’. Why can’t we just say ‘partner’?”

          “I suppose you can call it anything you like.” Molly tapped her pen on her lips. She was still worried about Mycroft, in the back of her mind, but decided she would tackle it on her own. Sherlock didn’t often talk about feelings, his own or anyone else’s, and she wasn’t going to redirect the conversation while he was being this open.

          Sherlock’s voice dropped, “Molly, John just returned with Rosie. Will you be home alone tonight or will my odious brother be there?”

          “Mycroft has no intention of coming by, to my knowledge,” Molly said, “But—“

          “Laters,” Sherlock ended the call before she had finished speaking and she made a face at her mobile.

 

******

 

          Hours later, still undecided about what to do with Mycroft, Molly was laying on her couch, wearing pink and black plaid pajama bottoms and an ancient, stretched out baby tee with the cracked decal of a panda on the front. Toby was laid along her, kneading her belly with his paws and rumbling. It had been a hectic month since she started…dating?...Mycroft, and she was guiltily aware that she had neglected Toby. It was nice just to relax and cuddle him.

          Given Sherlock’s question earlier in the day, Molly wasn’t entirely surprised when she heard his lock picks at work, and the door opened. “Hullo,” he said warily, looking around the door. “Are you alone?”

          “Just me and the cat,” Molly said lightly. She didn’t bother getting up, but Toby sat up and glared disapprovingly. He wasn’t fond of either of the Holmes brothers. Molly ran her hand along his spine and he arched his back, tail taut with pleasure. “What are you doing here?”

          “I thought perhaps…” uncharacteristically for him, Sherlock trailed off, looking a tad uncomfortable.

          Molly focused on Toby, who had half closed his eyes as she stroked his back, scratching just above his tail. Finally Sherlock spoke, sounding almost courteous. “I was wondering if I could stay the night?”

          That was a bit of a turn-up; he hadn’t stayed in ages, and truth be told, Molly had thought he might be getting better. His nightmares had slacked off (although they rose sharply following his shooting of Magnussen, and the world’s shortest exile), and he hadn’t stayed the night very often of late. After Mary’s death he had buried himself in his flat and (as it turned out) tried to obliterate himself with drugs; he had only showed up once or twice. Most of those nights were spent with him rambling, and Molly anxiously plying him with black coffee and too afraid of his emotional state and the probable amount of drugs in his system to get any sleep herself.

          Since John and Rosie had moved in to 221B, he hadn’t come to stay with her. Molly thought that having John back might have been enough for him. Apparently not; at least not tonight.

          “Of course,” Molly smiled welcomingly, although she still didn’t get up. “Have you eaten?”

          He paced nervously, “I had something yesterday…”

          Suppressing the urge to fuss, Molly cocked an eyebrow at him.

          “What?” He grimaced, “You’re as bad as John. I don’t need to eat.”

          “Are you on a case?”

          “…no.”

          “Sherlock.”

          “Fine.”

          “There are sandwich fixings in the refrigerator, and leftover soup.”

          “You’re going to make me cook?” He looked at her sorrowfully, his beautiful face somehow appearing more gaunt and pale than it had previously.

          “That doesn’t work on me anymore.” Molly scooped up Toby and buried her face in his fur, trying not to giggle. Sherlock’s tragic face had tickled her but she didn’t want to drive him off.

          “Are you laughing at me, Molly Hooper?” Whoops.

          “No,” still muffled by Toby’s fur.

          He tickled her foot and she shrieked in surprise; Toby scrambled out of her arms with an indignant yowl, catching her with his claws. Sherlock had a slight smile on his face, and she grinned at him cheekily, “Your charms are wasted on me, Sherlock, it’s another Holmes who kindles my fires.”

          “Oh, Molly, eugh, don’t.” But his protest was pro forma. He was inspecting her arms, “Toby got you pretty good. You should clean those.”

          In the end, he helped her clean and bandage the worst scratches, and although he protested that he had done her a favor and since she was his hostess, he shouldn’t have to heat up his own soup and make his own sandwich, she told him bracingly that it would be a moment of growth for him. Grumbling, he banged around in the kitchen, muttering (quite loudly) as he made himself something to eat.

          He flopped down next to her, stacking his feet on top of one another on her coffee table, and proceeded to eat in a manner which indicated that he was hungrier than he had let on. “What are you watching?”

          “ _Firefly_ …it’s one of my favorite shows.” Molly said, putting her feet in front of her on the sofa and loosely clasping her arms around her legs.

          “You’ve seen it before…so why are you watching it again?”

          “You like chips, you eat them even though you’ve had them before.”

          “Mmm…” Sherlock was looking at the screen. “They were in a space ship but now they’re riding horses?” He sounded a little confused.

          “It’s a space western,” Molly informed him. Sherlock wasn’t likely to want to watch this with her for long; although he had a surprisingly tolerant relationship with talk shows: he liked to shout at the screen.

          A minute later she heard a chuckle and snuck a glance from the corner of her eye. Sherlock was actually smiling slightly. Eyes wide, she focused on the screen, ears straining to hear…yup, there it was again. It appeared that Sherlock liked Captain Mal Reynolds, the snarky, cocky and absurdly rebellious lead. Come to think of it, they had quite a bit in common.

          They watched two more episodes before Molly started yawning. “You want me to leave it on for you?”

          Sherlock blinked, as if a spell had broken. “Eh? Oh, no. Are you going to bed?”

          “I am. Are you coming?”

          He was a bit standoffish, not looking directly at her, “If that’s still okay.”

          Molly squeezed his shoulder, “Of course it is, Sherlock.” She used the loo, then washed her face and brushed her teeth, wondering what was wrong. Perhaps he was afraid that her new relationship with Mycroft was going to edge him out?

          While he brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas (a pleased smile had stolen across his face when he found them in their usual drawer), Molly sat up in bed, rubbing lotion into her hands and arms. Sherlock expressed his displeasure with the floral smell when he entered the room and she told him sweetly what he could do with his opinion, and the return to their usual banter seemed to soothe him. He dropped to the bed and crossed his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Molly was feeling too sleepy to work on her Sudoku book, and they lay quietly for a time.

          Sherlock shifted restlessly, and Molly turned her head on the pillow, “What’s wrong?”

          “Nothing.”

          “Sherlock.”

          “I’m surprised my brother hasn’t forbidden me coming ‘round.” He sounded sulky, but beneath that was a vulnerability that tugged at Molly’s heartstrings.

          “I doubt he knows. And he is surely intelligent enough to know better than to try to order me around—or you for that matter.”

          She could hear the smile in his voice, he did love defying Mycroft. “He’s most assuredly aware of me coming over, especially if I stay the night, make no mistake.”

          Because she didn’t like the idea of Mycroft spying on her (surveillance for the purposes of her safety was one thing, spying on her was another), Molly didn’t answer. They didn’t speak further, and she was just starting to drift pleasantly toward sleep when she heard Sherlock sigh, and then he twisted around impatiently.

          “What’s wrong?” Molly asked sleepily.

          “I can’t sleep…” He sounded peevish, and she hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult; she had an early start in the morning and wasn’t in the mood to stay up and referee his fight with his demons.

          “Want me to scratch your back?”

          “As if that will make me sleepy,” despite his petulant tone, Sherlock obligingly removed his shirt, turned his back toward her and wriggled closer. A smile turned up the corners of Molly’s mouth; in a lot of ways Sherlock was like a kid that had never grown up. She rolled to face him and lightly scratched his back, moving in slow circles. When he had first begun sleeping with her after his return from Serbia, he was more physically exhausted and mentally wiped out than he would admit, and sleep had come easily to him for the most part. Once he started healing, he had bothered her with his tossing and turning, but she had soon worked out that she could lull him into an, if not sleepy, at least relaxed state, by scratching his back.

          At first she had done it out of necessity, because his healing wounds itched and made him restless. But it didn’t take long before they both found comfort in the nightly ritual, and it was usually enough to settle him down. For whatever reason, he was able to relax enough to confide in her—not that he would call it that—and it was on these nights, lying beside him in the dark that Molly had worked out that he was in love with John.

          It took Sherlock quite a bit longer to realize it. Molly was fairly certain that he hadn’t understood what he was feeling until John and Mary’s wedding. Watching his face as John and Mary danced away from him had broken her heart a little.

          Because it was Sherlock, he had never admitted it aloud, and his very manner had indicated that he didn’t want to talk about it. Her comments on the phone earlier that day had been the first time that she verbally acknowledged that she was aware of his feelings for John Watson. He had never once directly addressed it.

          “Do you think John knows?”

          She didn’t pretend not to understand him. “No. For one thing, you’re not renowned for your interest in relationships, and for another, I’m pretty sure right now he has all he can handle between Rosie, the clinic, his cases with you, the blog…I doubt he’s thinking about who fancies him.”

          “I _don’t_ ‘fancy’ him! What a ridiculous term—“

          “Oh pleeeease, you luuuuuuurve him!” Molly snuggled up to his back, to show him she wasn’t trying to be hurtful. Lowering her voice, she whispered in his ear, “Go on…say it. You know you want to.”

          He was stiff, and she felt a bit guilty; maybe her teasing was too much. Opening her mouth, she was just about to apologize, when Sherlock took a quavery breath and then spoke quickly, his deep voice verging on a whisper, “IdoloveJohnWatson.”

          Blinking away threatening tears, Molly kissed his ear clumsily, since she couldn’t reach his cheek. “Aww, Sherlock. You are a love.”

          “Oh shut up, Hooper.” But she could hear the smile in his voice, and she just patted him on the back. Looping her arm around his lean waist, she pressed her cheek to his bare back, feeling the scars that she couldn’t see.

 

******

 

          Since the age of seven, when he had first held his infant brother, Mycroft had never stopped worrying about him. At first it was the usual things: there were, the young Mycroft was aware (following a terrifying visit to the village library) a host of diseases that could snuff out the life of a small child. Then too, there were accidents galore that could befall a young boy; and Sherlock was reckless in his pursuit of playtime. His natural curiosity proved a danger also, as he was happiest when he learned by exploring the world—regardless of the consequences.

          Once he started school, Mycroft then had to worry about not only bullies but the wrath of teachers who didn’t like getting corrected by a precocious child; then there was the entire horrible mess with Victor Trevor and Eurus and Sherlock’s reinventing the whole into a different scenario. Mycroft had been away at school and it ate at him to leave his brother alone, with his new, fragile inability to deal with stress. As if he knew that his older brother knew something he did not, or was keeping something from him, Sherlock had become mutinous, fighting with Mycroft in a way he never had before.

          There was a new bitterness to his comments, a needle-sharp need to hurt with his barbs. Mycroft hid his hurt and gave as good as he got. Despite this, they were still brothers, and when Sherlock disappeared during his third year at university, it was Mycroft who went looking for him.

          Finding him in an appalling doss house, out of his head from the heroin, Mycroft had felt the shock throughout his whole body. How could he not have seen this? Sherlock, once he regained consciousness, had proved surly and uncooperative, but a terrified Mycroft had—so he thought—knocked some sense into him. How could someone as brilliant, mercurial and alive as his brother try so determinedly to kill himself? That was a question that Mycroft asked himself a lot over the years. After the third close call, when an ambulance had rushed Sherlock to hospital, he extracted a reluctant promise from his brother that he would always write down a list of whichever destructive substances he was currently abusing.

          In trying to control Sherlock, he managed to drive a bigger wedge between them. Despite knowing that his controlling ways were pushing his brother away, Mycroft couldn’t stop; he didn’t have any other way, short of tying him up, to keep Sherlock from returning again and again to the lure of his addictions. Rehab proved only temporarily effective; they managed to get Sherlock through university in one piece, he found a new passion in chemistry, and due to the brilliance of one of his professors, he completed his graduate course.

          In the years that followed, Mycroft remained in the background, searching for the proper combination of words that would heal his brother, the distraction which would prove stimulating enough to override the allure of drugs. He never really succeeded, but at least Sherlock was able to better control himself as he grew older, maintaining a sort of control over his demons for the most part. Stress from work, endless worry about his brother, the tremendous responsibility of not only maintaining a state of peace in his country, as well as keep his brother alive, his parents in the dark about just how grim it was, as well as continue to pay secretive visits to his mad sister, who was dangerously intelligent and manipulative, and who came with her own set of problems for him to deal with…well it all built to a head.

          Mycroft started noticing his hairline receding, his hair becoming a bit thinner. He had always struggled with his weight, but only iron self-control exerted from the age of seventeen on had kept him from gaining it back. When he became aware of his clothes getting tight, he copped to the fact that he had begun eating too much. It was at this unfortunate time that Sherlock caused a minor scandal and was banished to America; coming to rest in Florida, where Martha Hudson, his one-time nanny, was living at the time. What might have proved disastrous, actually clarified at least one answer to the question of what to do with Mycroft’s problematic younger brother.

          He proved that Mrs. Hudson’s husband, a drug king pin who was on trial for murder, but clearly going to be acquitted due to lack of evidence, was in fact a murderous thug and head of a cartel responsible for the flow of quite a lot of drugs into the country.

          Sherlock discovered that he craved the stimulation of solving crime almost as much as he craved cocaine or heroin. Mycroft sent up a silent thank you to the heavens and secretly went about arranging for his path to cross with that of Greg Lestrade, a Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard, who had come across Mycroft’s radar. After thoroughly investigating the man, Mycroft decided he would do nicely. As he had suspected, after one or two bumps, his brother had become an unofficial line of alternate inquiry for a good deal of the Yard.

          Sherlock’s impulse control, as well as his emotional mask, had settled more firmly into place, and he remained mostly isolated. Despite the frankly childish squabbling they sometimes got into, Mycroft was relieved that his brother had found an outlet for his wilder impulses, but he knew the way to handle Sherlock, and so he made his displeasure and disapproval clear. Sherlock always was contrary.

          There were one or two problems with the drugs exerting their control over his younger brother, but one of the conditions of his working with NSY was for him to remain clean; and for the most part he succeeded. Several months before he met John Watson, Sherlock had submitted to rehab; upon his release, he had moved his things from storage to the building where Martha Hudson had recently moved. Sherlock never suspected that his brother had helped finance the purchase. All he had asked was that she try to keep an eye on Sherlock, and let him know if he was getting too out of control. They both knew what he was capable of if he became too bored.

          It was understood that she would treat him like an enemy, since that was how Sherlock regarded him. As long as Mycroft had an ally in his ongoing efforts to keep his brother safe, he did not care.

          The frankly astounding relationship which had developed between Sherlock and John continued to confound Mycroft. He was grateful to the man, but a small part of him was jealous that his brother preferred a stranger to his own flesh and blood.

          When it became clear that Sherlock was in love (all unbeknownst to Sherlock until recently) with John Watson, Mycroft had been terrified as to what the potential havoc would be when John married Mary. Things had escalated quickly, and upon her death (an event which still haunted Mycroft with guilt for not seeing the truth sooner) a rift had risen between the two men, deep and seemingly impassible. Of course, Sherlock manipulated the situation and ended up stepping across the gulf and ending right back at 221B with John and his daughter firmly in tow.

          None of which did not mean that Sherlock might not at this moment be attempting to recall Molly Hooper’s affection to himself.

          Mycroft was aware that his brother’s sexuality was less an orientation than an act of manipulation; his sexual partners, few though they had been, were of both sexes. It was usually not need alone which had driven Sherlock to someone’s bed.

          It was entirely possible, now that it was clear Molly no longer harbored feelings for him that Sherlock would instigate something. Particularly since he knew the personal toll it would take on Mycroft.

          “She isn’t like that,” Mycroft told himself, watching the security feed which showed Sherlock letting himself into Molly’s flat. Unless she had climbed out the window, she was still at home. As he did each night once he returned home, Mycroft skimmed the security footage of those whose personal safety he had a personal stake in, and made sure that all was right in his corner of the world. It had been a very late night for him, and he was bone weary, but had stayed up to check on both Sherlock and Molly’s files.

          It had been more than a week since he had been able to be face to face with her; gifts and trinkets were all well and good, but Mycroft knew that he needed to be present in his lady’s life, or he could be easily forgotten. He had hoped to spend the following evening with her, perhaps have dinner out. Now he was dispirited, advancing through the feed, hoping to see Sherlock leave. But no, he was at the end of the footage, at the present time, and Sherlock had not left. It was nearly three in the morning, Molly had to work early, it was clear they were asleep…or…no.

          No.

          He knew Molly was trustworthy. Mycroft did not need the reports of the agents who had checked her out thoroughly upon her entry into his brother’s life, he didn’t need the Official Secrets Act which she had signed when she became part of the inner circle who planned Sherlock’s fake suicide. Knowing her as he did, _personally_ , Mycroft knew that she was true hearted.

          But she had loved Sherlock for a very long time.

          No.

          His brother was a handsome man, and he had held great sway over Molly at one time.

          _No_.

          Knowing people as he did, their darks secrets and hidden desires, Mycroft now found it hard to stop picturing just what could be happening in Molly’s flat.

          He was not unaware that since Sherlock’s return, he had on occasion—quite a lot of occasions, in the beginning—stayed the night at Molly’s. Mycroft had told himself it was none of his business; he had told himself that Molly was not his. He had told himself that Molly was engaged to Tom. He had told himself that his brother was pining for John Watson.

          He told himself that Molly was his now.

          It did no good. The human heart was a good deal more complicated than that.

          It was conceivable that Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes were having an affair.

 

******

 

          Could Sherlock Holmes, _his_ Sherlock Holmes, be having an affair? With Molly Hooper?

          John was frankly a bit weirded out even thinking about it. But the evidence was stacking up. When he had come home the day before, Sherlock had been on the phone with Molly, then there had been a bit of furtive whispering and his friend got off the phone hurriedly. Then he had disappeared quite late and hadn’t come home all night. Now he was gone once more, leaving John alone.

          John walked the floors with Rosie, who was whining softly; she was exhausted (that made two of them) but wouldn’t let him lay her down to sleep. He shifted her to his other shoulder and made soothing noises. “C’mon, sweetheart, take pity on Daddy…it’s hard being a single dad.”

          “You’re not single, you’ve got Sherlock.”

          A grunt was the only reply Mary received. She walked out of the kitchen, “You should have some tea, as it’s going to be a late night, by the sound of her.”

          John sighed, “I can’t keep on like this. I was so tired today I fell asleep while I was doing a pelvic exam.”

          Mary snorted, “You might want to watch where you take naps, John. Why don’t you ask Sherlock to help out?”

          “Look, he’s pretty good with Rosie, I have to admit, but he’s not her dad, I am.” John struck his shin a glancing blow on the table by his chair and cussed quietly, but thoroughly, under his breath.

          “Aw, go on, ask him.”

          John’s mouth was pinched, “I can’t. He isn’t here. He wasn’t here last night either.”

          “Ooooh, is our lad on the pull?” Mary grinned at him engagingly, “Is that why you sound so jealous?”

          “I am not jealous of Sherlock Holmes!” John shook his head, “That didn’t come out right. Look, sorry for the shouting.” He patted Rosie’s back; she had just been settling when he startled her. “Sorry, love. Shh, shh, go to sleep, Daddy’s sorry.” He sank tiredly into his chair, and rocked back and forth.

          Mary sat on the arm of his chair, and tucked her feet under his thigh. “John…”

          “What?”

          “Where _was_ Sherlock last night?”

          “I dunno.” John looked away from his wife’s piercing eyes, “He didn’t say.”

          “Why didn’t you ask?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a different tack, “Where do you think he was?”

          “…Molly’s place.”

          Mary narrowed her eyes, “And you think…?”

          “It can’t be. But…well, he has been disappearing a lot. And one day in the lab, I heard her say something about his needing a new toothbrush.” John stopped patting his daughter’s back, ran a tired hand over his face, around his neck. “It sounds like…”

          “Maybe so,” Mary agreed. “But John, have you forgotten?”

          “I don’t want to talk about it.”

          “Too bad. You know what I’m talking about. You know, John.”

          He looked away, “It—it isn’t true. It’s just something you suspect.”

          Huffing out an exasperated sigh, Mary stood up and circled behind his chair. Leaning over, she whispered in his ear, “It’s something _you_ suspect you mean. I’m in your head, remember?”

         


	2. Little Fishes - Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Molly spend an evening together, and get a few things sorted. An unexpectedly pleasant dinner for three is enjoyed at Angelo's. Mrs. Hudson pursues her own pleasures.

_\-----------Morning----------_

          Despite the late night, Molly had a bounce in her step. Sherlock was really coming along nicely as a ‘real boy’ and she had hope for his future with John. Her own concerns about Mycroft seemed frivolous after she had slept on it; but she still wanted to talk to him about the gifts. Walking from the tube station to Bart’s, Molly pulled out her phone and called Mycroft, it went to voicemail and she left a cheerful message, asking if he were going to be free that evening. Pocketing her mobile, she smiled happily: if her boyfriend giving her too many gifts were her only problem, then all was pretty right with her world.

         

          In the Cabinet room, Mycroft felt his mobile buzz discreetly in his oxter pocket, but as the situation was quite tense, he ignored it. Almost two hours passed before they broke for coffee, and he stepped away from the rest to check his messages. Upon seeing that he had a missed call from Molly, his eyes warmed; as no one was looking at him, it did not diminish his Ice Man image. Face impassive, he listened to her message; she burbled happily, sounding slightly out of breath. No doubt she had been rushing in to work. Mentally considering his day, he sent a text to Althea and asked her to rearrange his afternoon so that he could leave by six, and asked her to call Valentine and have him prepare dinner for two.

 

          Waking with a start, John realized he had dozed off at his work station; the buzz of the receptionist letting him know his next patient had arrived had penetrated his fitful rest. Shaking his foggy head, John lightly slapped his cheeks and rubbed his eyes, hoping he didn’t look as if he had been sleeping. As his patient shuffled into the room, John stood up, smiling, and biting back a wince as his spine readjusted. Sleeping in his chair hadn’t done him any favors, although Rosie hadn’t seemed to mind sleeping on her daddy’s chest. It hadn’t done any good trying to wait up for Sherlock…John had fallen asleep before his flat mate got home, and had no idea what time he had returned. He had woken to find the blanket from his bed tucked around him and Rosie, but no sign of Sherlock.

 

          Humming as she tidied, Martha tsked over the state of the kitchen. When John had agreed to move back in, Sherlock had submitted to a few rules to keep things safe and sanitary for John’s daughter: no more body parts in the fridge where they kept their food, no firing off of guns, and no more experiments left out. The flat was tidier for that, but still and all, it was two lads living together, batching it except for her able assistance. The cooker could use a good scrub, the sink was full of breakfast things and baby bottles, and a few cupboard doors were half open. Grumbling that the boys never seemed to appreciate that _she wasn’t their housekeeper_ , Martha folded the haphazardly bundled blanket in John’s chair and wondered why John had slept in the sitting room. Perhaps the boys had had a domestic, she fretted.

 

          Unless he was on a case, Sherlock normally never woke early and ventured out. Today however, he was walking the streets restlessly, unwilling to return to the flat until he was sure John had departed for his morning shift at the clinic. Ridiculous as it was, he felt hesitant to meet John when he had so freshly revealed his—affection—for him, even if it were only to Molly Hooper. Molly might tease _him_ , but Sherlock knew she would never reveal anything to anyone else. Really, his brother was remarkably lucky to have garnered Molly’s affection. It was easier thinking about love in regards to someone besides himself. The only problem was, he kept thinking about John and then he became annoyed with himself for not being able to think about anything else.

 

_\-----------Afternoon------------_

          The canteen at Bart’s was decent, but Molly thought everything looked lackluster today…she was pretty sure she had a protein bar in her desk. Grabbing a slightly too ripe banana, a skim milk and paying for her skimpy lunch, she waved at a few colleagues, but returned to her office. Making do with her lunch, she checked her personal emails, and was delighted to see one from Mycroft. He, rather overly formally, invited her to dine at his house that evening, and said he would send a car for her. Giggling, Molly sent back her acceptance; she felt as if she were dating an aristocrat, or the hero of an improbable novel.

 

          Breakfast was a long time in his past, and lunch was only an optimistic hope when Greg bounded up the stairs to 221B and found the door open, Sherlock at home, and the smell of a plate of pasta primavera from Angelo’s luring him in. “Ah, God, that smells…” Greg groaned exaggeratedly, and Sherlock raised an amused brow. “It’s for you, Greg.” Wait a bloody minute, Sherlock Holmes had not only gotten him food—his favorite dish at that—but he had remembered his name as well? Sitting down and diving into the food without a qualm, Greg asked thickly around a mouthful—he was in a hurry—what he wanted. When it turned out that what Sherlock wanted was to hear about his tumultuous marriage and the reasons it had failed and why he had stayed, Greg thought he might actually be dreaming.

 

          Since he was working a half shift, John skipped lunch, and by the time he had picked his daughter up at her day care, and navigated them both back home, he was cranky and starving. Finding Sherlock not only home, but in a surprisingly mild mood, John handed him Rosie without ceremony and headed directly for the kitchen. “I’m starving, absolutely empty. I’m going to put the kettle on and make a quick snack. I was thinking—“ He was interrupted by Sherlock, who had followed him into the kitchen, Rosie in his arms, “I thought we might have an early dinner at Angelo’s, Rosie too, of course.” John looked at him in surprise and then smiled with pleasure, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

          Mindful that he was going to be eating more calories that evening than were wise, Mycroft skipped lunch, and consequently so did Althea, who sat with a grumbling stomach and sipped her cooling tea. Her boss was too cool a customer to rush, but there was a distinct air of focus about him; even more so than usual. She wondered just what—or rather who— he was rearranging his day for. She’d been with him for seven years and she had never once known him to alter his schedule for a personal matter, other than rescuing his brother. But today he was clearly looking forward to seeing someone who offered more than a possible treaty or trade deal. Althea was burning to find out who it was.

 

          Tidying herself in Ronald Chatterjee’s small bathroom, Martha gloated over their tryst. He had a wife—two actually—but she wasn’t bothered. She’d never been particularly concerned with fidelity, and at her age the circle of men who _weren’t_ married and who _could_ still perform in the bedroom was small. He suited her purposes quite nicely. She would have liked a relationship which could afford her more time, but all in all this arrangement suited her. Now it was time for a quick bit to eat while she watched her favorite program.

 

_\-------------Evening----------_

          Leaving the phone on speaker while she got dressed, Molly bubbled over with excitement; this was her first real, proper date with Mycroft. Meena was still slightly skeptical that Molly could be that happy to be involved with “a grumpy cold fish with a stick up his arse” as she so poetically put it. “But I am happy for you Molly, really. I hope he treats you right. Tell him if he doesn’t he’ll have me to answer to.”

          Muffling a laugh at the idea of Mycroft, with his shadowy world of agents, spies, bodyguards and basically a whole freaking army at his disposal, being intimidated by Meena, Molly assured her, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. But I’ll tell him.”

          “What are you wearing?”

          “The dress I wore to the Watson’s wedding, and my flowered white cardigan, since it’s a bit chilly out.”

          “Kind of formal, isn’t it?”

          “Um, maybe. But Mycroft is a bit formal, and this is our first real date…I wanted to look nice.” Molly didn’t mention that she was more than a little nervous about going to Mycroft’s home. He was letting her in, and she welcomed it, but still…she knew how private he was. She hoped he didn’t regret making this huge step so early on.

          Ending the call, she finished getting ready, and then surveyed herself in the mirror: the dress looked lovely, she did love that color of yellow, and her cardigan suited it nicely. Although she rarely wore stockings, she had them on tonight, and a pair of tan flats, since heels made her nervous. She wore no cosmetics, other than pale pink lipstick, but she had woven her hair into a rather complicated side braid and then pinned the end up in a knot. Spritzing on a light perfume, Molly put a few essentials in a clutch and moved through the flat, turning off lights and making sure Toby had all he needed.

          The driver Mycroft had sent arrived, and feeling like a princess, she was whisked across town to a beautiful row of Georgian house-fronts. The driver pulled up to the kerb in front of the house on the end, and got out to help her alight. Molly mounted the steps and reached for the bell pull, but before she could announce her presence, the door opened and Mycroft smiled at her. “Do come in, my dear.”

          She entered the foyer with trepidation; this house was even more intimidating than she had envisioned, and she hoped her expression didn’t give anything away. Mycroft kissed her lightly and put his hand on the small of her back, “Would you like something to drink, Molly?”

          “Oh, well…” she trailed off when he lead her into a rather grand and gorgeous drawing room, with dark red silk wall paper, dark wood, expensive looking Turkish rugs and a fire softly burning on the hearth. How on earth had Mycroft sat with a straight face on her ancient sofa and eaten takeaway and watched telly with her all those times?

          Reading her anxieties at a glance, Mycroft moved up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, murmuring in her ear, “The chief attraction of your home, Molly, is _you_.”     

          Unable to stop the smile on her face from spreading ear to ear, Molly turned to face him, putting a hand over his heart. “I recall you telling me once that you did not employ flattery.”

          “It isn’t flattery if it’s true,” he said smoothly.

 

          He was tired, true, and still wondering where Sherlock had disappeared to, and just what was going on between his friend and Molly…but John had chosen to ignore that and enjoy this unexpectedly peaceful evening with Sherlock.

          Rosie, strapped in a high chair, was happily occupying herself with bits of pasta and the teething biscuits John had scattered on the tray. Occasionally one or both of them would address remarks to her, and she kept up a fairly continuous stream of babble. John was proud of his girl, of course, but Sherlock had taken quite a keen interest in her progress, and was keeping a number of charts tracking her growth, speech, eating habits, bowel evacuation, and all the other minutiae of a child’s daily life. He had promised John he would perform no harmful experiments on her, but he was interested in seeing if they could accelerate her learning and development.

          It was one of those rare nights when Sherlock was fully present: he conversed cordially with John, didn’t disappear into his own thoughts, kept his texting to a minimum, and didn’t try and rush John through his meal while mostly ignoring his own. Instead they chatted as they ate, reminiscing about old cases, discussing the latest medical journal, and admired young Miss Watson, agreeing that Rosie was really quite skilled with her fine motor development. Angelo came by and lit the candle on the table with a wink, and John, glancing at Sherlock, felt his cheeks warm.

          Maybe it was his imagination— _who are you trying to fool, John?_ Mary whispered—but Sherlock was looking at him with rather luminous eyes. If John hadn’t known better he would have thought the other man was drunk. Or in love.

          Clearing his throat noisily, John sat up straighter and took a healthy swallow of his water. Even though he knew it was useless, he hoped Sherlock would ignore his usual razor sharp observational skills and fail to wonder—and ask—why John’s face was so red.

          Amazingly, the moment passed with hardly a pause, and their dinner proceeded at a leisurely pace. Finishing, they collected a sleepy Rosie from her high chair (after Sherlock meticulously used a nappy wipe to clean her hands and face) and walked down the road in companionable silence. Mrs. Hudson was out, and they mounted the stairs and entered their flat, John taking Rosie to get her ready for bed, while Sherlock moved restlessly around the flat. He had enjoyed the quiet dinner more than he would have suspected, and despite her minimal contribution to the conversation, Rosie had already firmly planted herself in his affections.

          It had been a quite successful evening. Sherlock was aware—mostly because of Molly’s advice—that it was too soon to talk to John about his ugh, feelings…but he took heart from the dinner. Maybe John would be more open to the idea than he sometimes feared? There had been that moment when Angelo lit the candle…But no, no he had to practice patience. For now he must proceed with John as if nothing had changed.   

          But despite all good sense, he was humming with a need to be close to John.

          Molly had made it clear that he needed to wait. Sherlock had asked how long and she had huffed in annoyance and told him to learn a little patience. _Why would I want to do that?_ Sherlock wondered in irritation. The world was too slow as it was.

          But if patience was needed to win John over, then he would learn patience.

          Just when he thought perhaps John had decided to remain upstairs in his room, he heard his tread as he came down the stairs. “She went down like an angel. I think last night wore her out, too.” John set the infant monitor on the table next to his chair. “I know I should catch up on some sleep myself, but it’s too nice a night to go to bed this early.” He crossed the room and opened the front windows, letting in the cool night air and the slightly muffled sound of traffic.

          “I can play for you,” Sherlock offered, “Something soothing but stimulating.”

          “Sure,” John said with an appreciative smile. He went to sit down, and then paused, “Wine?”

          “Mm,” Sherlock agreed absently, watching John’s capable hand, his strong wrist as it emerged from the sleeve of his shirt. When John walked away, Sherlock watched him—the confidence of his walk, the resolute set of his shoulders—absently adjusting his violin; when John turned around, Sherlock had dropped his eyes and appeared to be absorbed in preparing to play.

          John dropped tiredly into his chair and propped his feet on the coffee table, took a sip of his wine and let his head drop back against the cushion. As Sherlock played, John savored the wine, and the cool air, the quiet night and the good friend.

 

 

          Following an absolutely yummy dinner, and an even better dessert, served by Mycroft’s “man” Valentine—a delightful old man that Molly wanted to put in her pocket and take home to press in an old book with rose petals—they adjourned to the library, which Mycroft had thought she would appreciate.

          “Your home is so lovely, Mycroft. But it’s so big…don’t you ever get lonely here by yourself?” Molly skimmed a finger along the edge of one of the bookcases, awed at how many books he had. What a wonderful place to spend a rainy day…

          He poured himself a port, and after raising his eyebrow and receiving a wrinkled nose and head shake in reply, he left the other glass empty and stood a bit uneasily next to a group of deeply cushioned chairs. Molly could feel his eyes on her as she explored.

          “I’ve never thought of it as loneliness,” Mycroft said slowly, “I’ve spent most of my life alone, both by inclination and necessity.”

          “Does it make you uncomfortable to have me here?”

          “I wouldn’t have asked you if it did.”

          She felt there was something evasive about the way he answered, but she left it. “I’m glad you did.” Turning back, she joined him and picked nervously at the back of the chair in front of her. “Um, Mycroft…”

          His shoulders tensed ever so slightly at her hesitant tone, but she was so busy being nervous that she missed it. “Yes, my dear?”

          “I have something I want to, to talk to you about.”

          His face was impassive. Swirling the port in his glass, Mycroft braced himself. “Of course my dear…are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

          “Maybe I will have something,” Molly said, as if she needed it. Blandly, he fixed her a drink and then gestured her to sit.

          “Um, Mycroft,” Molly paused and took another sip of her port, surprised to find it agreeable. “I have something a bit, well, not bad, but…” Gulping, she met his eyes, flinched at their cool expression, looked away. She missed seeing his expression falter for a moment; when she braced herself and looked back, he was expressionless once more.

          “Do you know how many gifts you’ve sent me in the last month?”

          Clearly he wasn’t expecting that particular opening, caught off guard, he blinked, some warmth returning to his eyes, “Why no, Molly. I haven’t kept count.”

          “I have.” Pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, Molly consulted it, “Five flower arrangements, bubble bath, bath oil, concert tickets, my bracelet—“ She held up her wrist, where the dainty trifle was clasped, “—two boxes of sweets, the fairy cakes that looked like ballerinas, a gift basket of cat toys for Toby, and Monday you had lunch delivered to Bart’s for me!”

          He was bewildered, “Did you not like them, my dear?”

          “I loved them!” Molly was exasperated, but smiling. Mycroft’s face resumed an easier look, and she reached out to take his hand in hers, “Mycroft,” she said softly, stroking his pulse with her thumb, “It was all so lovely and thoughtful…but it was too much!” She hurried on when his face tightened. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I was absolutely overwhelmed, blown away really. But Mycroft,” smiling up at him coaxingly, “I don’t need you to _buy_ me.”

          He flushed, and she felt his pulse leap beneath her touch, “Molly, my dear, I wasn’t trying to buy you. I just wanted you to know I appreciate you…that I was thinking of you.”

          “Message received,” she teased. “Honestly though, I don’t need you to shower me with things. I want to spend time with you.”

          “My time is not always my own—“

          “I know. But when you _do_ have time, I’d like some of it to be spent with me. Instead of sending me lunch, maybe you could go to lunch with me?” When she saw his dubious frown, she hurried on, “Okay, so maybe that was a bad example, I know your schedule is tight. But do you see what I’m getting at?”

          “I believe I do.”

          “Good!” Molly smiled happily and sipped her port. “This is really quite good; I didn’t think I would like port.”

          “I’m glad you enjoyed it my dear. Would you like another glass?”

          “Oh no, thank you, I’m quite full. Dinner was superb! Did Valentine cook that all himself?”

          “He did. He trained in France and he doesn’t get much opportunity to practice his skills with me. I’m afraid our dinner may have overexcited him.”

          “You mean you don’t eat like this every night?” Molly teased.

          “Erm, no. I usually have something light.”

          “You didn’t eat much at dinner…are you feeling alright?”

          “Yes, Molly, I’m fine thank you. I just didn’t want to overdo it. I have a history of gluttony.” Self-derision twisted Mycroft’s lips, and she frowned.

          “You’ve said as much before, and I wish you didn’t think that way of yourself. You’re quite fit, Mycroft, and you should indulge every once in a while. You lead a stressful life, a little pampering or an extra helping won’t come amiss.”

          He made a non-committal noise. Rolling her eyes affectionately, Molly gave his hand a squeeze. “Anyway, that’s my thought.”

          “I’ll take it under advisement,” he smiled a bit.

          Accepting his offer of a tour of the house, Molly followed him from one grand room to another. His “gym” was a room full of exercise equipment and decorated with shining suits of armor and giant knights on horseback. Smothering a giggle, Molly followed him into his study, which was appropriately dark and manly; then into a charming morning room that looked over a garden full of flowering bushes, trees, low beds and overflowing urns. “I’ll have to invite you over during the day time; you’ll love the garden, Molly.”

          Venturing into the kitchen, Molly thanked Valentine again for the wonderful dinner, and accepted his gift of a small basket of home-made goodies. She tucked her arm in the crook of Mycroft’s arm and followed him up the staircase, swinging her basket. “I feel like Little Red Riding Hood being led astray by the Big Bad Wolf,” she teased.

          The upper floor contained a small home theater, guest bedrooms, en suites, and the master suite.

          Molly blushed wildly as they stood in the doorway. What is wrong with me, she wondered, he’s my lover, we’ve been together…and yet his bed makes me turn red!

          Mycroft’s lips quirked and he seemed amused. “Is there a problem?”

          “No,” Molly swallowed, “No problem. That’s…that’s a very big bed.”

          “It’s very comfortable too.” Mycroft smiled, “I thought you might like to see my home, Molly. I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.” He turned away but she stood where she was.

          “I’m not uncomfortable,” Molly assured him, “A bit turned on? Yeah.”

          It was his turn to flush, and he cleared his throat, “Ah. I wasn’t expecting—“

          “Mycroft, what’s wrong?”

          “Pardon?”

          “Don’t stall for time, you heard me perfectly.”

          “There’s nothing—“

          “Oh but there is. You’ve been a bit closed off all evening, and I can tell something is on your mind. Is it me? Or are you worried about work? I can go home if you want—“

          He sighed, leaned against the door frame, “There is something bothering me, my dear, but I am frankly not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a cad.”

          Schooling her smile, Molly lifted her chin and met his eyes, “Please don’t hesitate on _my_ account. What is it?”

          Uneasiness sat upon his shoulders, “It has erm, come to my attention that Sherlock spent the night at your place.” He met her eyes, “Not for the first time.”

          The struggle between anger and frustration warred in her. Taking a deep breath, Molly shook her head, “Mycroft, I’m aware, probably more than most people who know you yet don’t work with you, that you have a positively frightening ability to peer into people’s lives. But do you ever stop to wonder if you’re getting the whole picture when you’re scrutinizing someone through a camera?”

          “I take it that my fears are baseless?”

          “Quite. I won’t deny that I used to be foolishly in love with your brother—I’m pretty sure the whole world knows that—and that at one time we did share a bed with more than friendship.” Molly took his hand, “but that was one time, years ago. I’m not in love with him, nor he with me.” Stepping closer, she put her hand on his jaw, tilting his head toward her. “I won’t betray a confidence and tell you what transpires…but there is no need for you to worry, either about my feelings for your brother, nor about him. He is doing remarkably well, considering all that has transpired in the last few years.”

          A sigh shook him, then he dropped his head and let it rest on hers. “Molly, I do apologize for my intrusion into your life—all I want is for you to be safe and happy and yet I seem to continue to get in my own way.”

          Snuggling into his embrace, she laid her head over his heart, “You’re just new to this whole romance thing. We’ll get the hang of it. Until then…I’m not going anywhere.”

          A deeply satisfying kiss followed, and when he reached over and closed the bedroom door, she smiled against his kiss.

 

 

 

          Unsure why he had woken, and then unclear on why he was asleep in his chair yet again, John blinked heavily, looking around the room. Sherlock was leant over him, watching him somewhat intensely.

          John wasn’t unused to be studied—and occasionally experimented upon—by his friend, but this was the first time he had woken up and found him hovering like that. “Eh?” He asked thickly, sitting up and stretching.

          “I said, you shouldn’t sleep in the chair, it’s not good for your back.” Sherlock continued to regard him gravely, his pale eyes a bit too wide, his lips slightly parted.

          John felt that weird, warm feeling creep over him again. Damn it, what was wrong with Sherlock Holmes? What was wrong with _him_?! He stood up, edging out of his chair, as Sherlock was still standing slightly too close.

          “Guess I needed to sleep. Thanks for waking me, mate.” Even as he said it, John winced. He never called Sherlock ‘mate’ he was going to wonder why he was …well, trying to put a bit of distance between them. “I’m going to check on Rosie, then go to bed. You staying up?” John glanced casually back over his shoulder as he walked toward the hall.

          Sherlock didn’t answer. He was standing next to John’s chair, his hands hanging at his sides.

          “Uh, Sherlock?”

          “What? Oh, yes John. I’m staying up. You go to bed. I’ll check on Rosie if she cries…I don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight.”

          “Try to get some rest,” John suggested, “You’ve been up every night for the last several.”

          “Thank you, John,” Sherlock said formally, moving to stand at the open window. “I appreciate your concern.”

          Shaking off his feeling of unease, John climbed the stairs to his bedroom, checking on Rosie in her alcove. She was sleeping peacefully, covered in a light blanket, bathed in the soft glow of her nightlight. John spent a minute watching his daughter sleep, before his exhaustion took over and he headed for his own bed. Just let him get one good night of sleep and he’d stop having these fanciful thoughts about his friend.

 

 

          Molly was wrapped around Mycroft, in the approximate middle of his big bed, which was indeed most comfortable. The hour was getting late and they both had to work in the morning, yet she was loath to leave. “I don’t want to go,” she confessed softly, running her hand lightly through his sprinkling of chest hair and making him shiver.

          She propped her chin on his chest and smiled at him, “I know we both need our sleep, but I can’t bear the idea of leaving. I’m so happy and comfortable.”

          “Don’t go,” Mycroft said, startling them both, “Stay.” He pulled her closer, kissed her upturned face, “Stay with me.”

          “I don’t have any of my things…”

          “I have a spare toothbrush, you won’t need a night gown, and I can drive you home in the morning.” He brushed his lips over her jaw, nuzzled her pulse, which was fluttering rapidly, “Stay, Molly Hooper. Stay with me.”

          She melted into him, “If you’re sure..”

          “God, yes.”


End file.
